


I am the Gentle Autumn Rain

by PlethoraOfCreatures



Series: The Elemental Saga [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bullying, Child Abuse, Gen, I have now added the (s) because that's so helpful, I think this'll get better, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by a poem, Man I hate this kid, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Minor character death is off-screen, No I am not making sense, No Self-Harm, Supernatural Elements, Talk of Suicide, This kid ain't having that bull, Why do I hurt this character so much?, Yo you should prob read this poem, no suicide, nothing too graphic, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlethoraOfCreatures/pseuds/PlethoraOfCreatures
Summary: Sam Lancost was not one to be envied. His horrible home life was evidence of this.But there's someone watching over him.Me.This is our story.





	1. The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Just an idea floating around in my head. Title and story are inspired by the poem Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

I was coming into being, almost, almost formed, but not there yet. The wind whistled through me, and the weak sunlight was just a faint suggestion of its usual blazing and bright glory. 

Not that I had ever seen it. Whenever I come, the sun always hides.

Maybe he’s shy.

I was nearly fully formed not, ready to fall from the leaden gray clouds that contained me, like so much overripe fruit from a branch. I could now see what awaited me when I fell. 

It was nothing special. Just an average suburban street. Not many people were outside. They had probably seen the oncoming threat of me and gotten inside already. 

I guess that was why he stood out to me.

Like the street he was walking down, there was nothing particularly special about him. Blue jeans, white T-shirt, beat-up sneakers. He had a red backpack slung over his shoulder. Nothing about him stood out.

Except for the bruises.

He had a black eye on his left, and smaller bruises colored his arms. Nothing severe, but they had to hurt. 

Had he been in a fight?

It seemed to be the most likely cause, as there were now three boys making a beeline for the boy with the red backpack, and I didn't think they were friends judging from the evil smirks the three boys were giving one another. 

The three caught the boy with the red backpack and started speaking with him. I watched as the boy’s face went pale and then cold and hard. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as the boy responded to the three, I could already tell what was going to happen before it did. 

The three boys’ faces went red, and the one closest to the boy lunged at him with his fist. 

Thankfully, the boy possessed the same foresight as I and danced out of his way. But he didn’t see one other boy go behind his back and kick at his knees, sending him to the concrete. 

All three began beating on the boy with the red backpack, kicking at him, spitting on him. All he could do was curl up and try to protect his head. 

Eventually, they stopped, and after spitting on the boy on the ground a few more times, they left, walking down the street casually. As if they didn’t just leave a boy bleeding on the sidewalk behind them. 

As the boy picked himself up from the ground, I finally started to fall, soft drops leaving dark circles of moisture on the ground. 

The boy looked up, closed his eyes, and sighed. I continued to fall, gently washing away the blood on his face. 


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious boy walks on. But to where?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, sometimes I wonder how I know things like these. Trigger warning for child abuse...

He started walking, still keeping his face upturned so I could continue to fall on to his face. 

"You know," he said. There was no one around us, or rather, him. "Sometimes I wonder if they're right. That no one would miss me. If I were to..." he trailed off, not saying what was best left unsaid, at least to me. But if he was thinking like that, he really should talk. My hissing on the ground grew a little louder, then subsided again. 

It was my only real form for contacting him. 

The boy shook his head and scoffed. "Look at me," he muttered. "Talking to the rain. Well, at least the rain isn't judgemental. Or abusive."

He looked down at his white shirt, now plastered with mud and leaves. "Dad'll be angry," he sighed, straightening his backpack. "Then again, when isn't he?" He smiled humorlessly. 

I was growing more concerned for the boy as he spoke. Was he in danger? From his father? From those three boys? From himself?

That last one I think, scared me the most. 

He ducked into a side alley and climbed up a stack of rickety wooden crates. He opened a window at the top and climbed into the house. He left the window open, letting me blow inside and see the room. 

It was sparsely furnished, with a nightstand, bed, and dresser taking up most of the space. There were no personal touches to the room, besides a picture of a smiling woman on the nightstand. She had the boy's eyes. His mother, perhaps?  

The boy quickly walked across the room and turned the lock on the door. He also dragged out a chair from a small closet and wedged it under the doorknob. He backed away and sat on the bed, staring at the door. From the nightstand, he dug out a small camera, and pointing it at the door and turning it on, he said, "Hi again. Sam here. Still Samuel H. Lancost,"

So that was his name. 

"This is Entry 28 of Abuse Logs. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm waiting for it. Some context, as always," Sam continued. "Some kids jumped me on my way home from school. Beat me up good. Door I knew was locked, and you already know that dear old dad destroyed my key. See Entry 13. So I had to climb up to my window to get into my room. My dad’s going to be angry that I got home late, messed up my shirt, etc., etc. The usual. See literally every other Entry." Sam said. There was enough bitterness in his voice for a small lemon orchard.

There were heavy footsteps on the other side of the barricaded door, and Sam quickly put the camera under his bed, concealed, but also where it would have a view of everything. 

"Here we go," Sam whispered.

 


	3. Take Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has a choice. Stay, or go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this contains mentions of child abuse, like the chapter before it. If you or anyone you know is suffering like this, here's the hotline for child abuse.  
> (1-800) 422-4453  
> Or, if you or anyone you know is suicidal, here's the hotline for that too:  
> (1-800) 273-8255
> 
> Happy reading!

Suddenly, the door shook with an almighty _BANG!_ , and Sam jumped to put his back to a wall.  I can't smell, exactly, but I felt the air around me grow heavier with the fumes of alcohol.

"Boy!" came a slurred voice from outside the door. "Let me in!" This was his father, I presumed.

Sam didn't reply, and I saw that he was shaking with fear, his pupils drowning out the wide blue of his eyes. The door shook again, and Sam whispered, "That lock will hold up. It's brand new."

The door rattled in its frame once more, and Sam's father said, "You'll come out eventually. You need to eat, and there's no food in there."

Those same heavy footsteps tromped off again, and when they faded out of earshot, the room seemed to become lighter, a shade gone. Sam sighed. "End of Entry 28 of Abuse logs. Hope I don't see you again." With that, he stopped recording and saved the video onto a computer, a phone, and a flash drive, and put the camera back into the nightstand.

"Why do I do this?" Sam asked. "why don't I take this to the police already? Why the _hell_ do I still care about him?"

I didn't have an answer for him.

"There's no food in my room," Sam muttered in a mock of his father's voice. "Shows what he knows."

He bent down under his bed, and there was a noise that sounded like a floorboard being pulled up. Sam reappeared with two granola bars and an orange juice pouch. He then fished in his backpack and came up with a water bottle and a small bag of chips.

He opened them up and began to much moodily on them, pulling out what looked like math homework and started to work on it.

Sam fascinated me. He was unlike any other human I had ever observed before, and I had been all around this green world. He was a good kind in a bad situation, but it wasn't like I could do anything to make it better.

From what his appearance told me, he was just a person, maybe one with a little less money than others, but a person none the less.

What his actions told me, however, was that he was made out of some alloy, rare and strong. And that he would shine once you cleaned the muck off.

The muck, I knew, that was produced by those three boys and his father.

There was something else there too, besides the shining muck-covered alloy.

It was a soft red-gold color, the same color that I imagined his name would be. It was where his heart would be, glowing brightly, softly.  It was the color of autumn leaves, the color of a winter dawn, the color of a summer bonfire. It was the color of a spring flower, pushing up through the frosty ground. It was the color of home.

And that's when it struck me. _He knew what home was._

It wasn't this place. It wasn't this building, with a monster wearing the face of a human, with the stench of liquor filling the air.

It was somewhere else.

And the stronger that light grew, the closer he would be to it. The closer Sam would be to bringing his father to justice.

As Sam finished his math homework, he looked out the window and sighed.

"Right then," he said, grabbing the flash drive and his phone. "That's it. I'm going."

I had been around since before the rise of humanity, but never had I been so shocked.

_He was doing it!_

He went back to the small closet and dug out a gym bag and started filling it with clothes. Along with the clothes went various chargers, the picture of the smiling woman, and the laptop.

He was leaving for home. Or at least somewhere close to it.

He disappeared under his bed again and pulled up the floorboard, placing the various granola bars and juice pouches into his backpack. He carefully replaced the math homework back into the backpack as well, slung it onto his back. He picked up the gym bag and headed to the window, which was still open.

His hand reached out for the windowsill, only to be stopped by the sound of the dreaded heavy footsteps outside the door. Sam went pale.

"Oh God," he whispered. "He'll have a hammer."

Indeed, it seemed as though Sam's father did have a hammer with him, judging from the deafening rapping on the doorknob.

Galvanized by the sound of the door starting to crack, Sam leaped for the window and climbed down the crates so fast that I feared that he would fall.

He took off running down the street, heading through the darkening town to stop at a bus station.

"I didn't lock the window," he muttered. "He'll know that I got out."

He sighed once more and started walking at a more sedate pace through the streets.

For hours.

It was full night when the car pulled up alongside him and Sam's breath was starting to cloud in the air. He continued to walk, and the person driving the car kept pace.

I saw that the car was not, in fact, a regular vehicle, but was a police car.

The window rolled down, and a deep voice came from the interior. “Hey son,” the man said. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”

Sam sighed. “I’m not a rapist, thug, mugger, or murderer, sir,” he said. “Just taking a stroll.”

“In the rain,” the voice said. “With a bag full of clothes and bruises on you.”

Sam was silent.

“Are you a runaway, son?”

“Don’t call me that!” Sam snapped. Then hastily added, “Uh, sir.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the officer said. “Get in. I’ll let you ride shotgun.”

“You aren’t gonna arrest me?” Sam asked, surprised.

“Aw, hell no, kid,” the man said. “You’ve done nothing illegal. Why should I?”

“I’m a runaway,” Sam admitted. “I was, uh, actually headed to the station to file a report.”

“On what?”

“Child abuse.”

“How old are you?” the officer asked. 

“Only sixteen, sir,” Sam said. “Been happening for around a year and a half. You’ll have to take my word on that, since I grew a brain only about a month ago and started recording the instances.”

“Smart,” the officer said. “What’s your name?”

“Sam. Sam Lancost,” Sam said. “Yours, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t,” he said, “But don’t call me sir. It makes me feel old, and I'm only twenty-five. My name’s Ted. Ted Collins. Let me give you a ride to the station. I'll help you file that report.”

“Nice to meet you, Officer Collins,” said Sam. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually don't do end notes, but congrats to whoever finds the reference to one of my other fics.


	4. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's safe. But there's a process to go through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is late. Sorry...

Collins rolled the window back up, muffling any other conversation that I might have heard otherwise and the patrol car picked up speed. I was still falling, drops hitting the windshield, beating out a steady drum.

They continued on to a brightly lit building, one with other cars that looked the same as the one that Sam was in. This was the police station, then.

They got out of the car and Collins looked at Sam. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, not unkindly. “If he’s found guilty, you’ll go into the system. And there’s a lot of evidence against him, thanks to you.”

“I know,” Sam said simply. “I figure that foster care can’t be too horrible. I mean, I have a job, I can provide for myself. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll file for emancipation.”

Collins studied Sam. There was an appraising light in his eyes. “You gave some thought to this,” he said.

“Yeah. That generally tends to happen when you have a year and a half to plan your bid for escape,” said Sam bitterly. “I have to say, you’re taking this rather well.”

“How did you expect me to take it?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, you could’ve taken me straight back home, arrest me, not believe me, say it’s my own damn fault, or be all pitying,” he said. “Was not expecting the matter-of-fact attitude and regular treatment. Kudos to you.”

“Sam,” Officer Collins said, “I’ve seen some things. And sometimes they ain’t pretty. This isn’t my first time with a case like yours.”

“That’s good,” Sam said, then quickly corrected himself. “Uh, I don’t mean that the fact that someone was being abused is good, I just mean that you know what you’re doing is-”

Collins cut off his rambling with an amused look on his face. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

They walked into the building, and just like the car, I couldn’t hear them anymore. I was not in the building, and I could not enter.

Then that would mean it would be raining in the building, and that’s frowned upon.

Unlike the car, however, I could still see them through the windows. The entrance of Ted Collins with a bruised and sodden teenager raised a lot of questions, based on the expressions of confusion on the faces of the other police people inside.

It wasn’t mindless badgering, though. One of them grabbed a blanket from a bench and wrapped it around Sam, much to his indignation, it would seem. He did, however, happily accept the mug of what looked like hot chocolate that was handed to him by a kind-looking woman.

Collins, showing the same amount of kindness, deflected the questions and walked Sam over to a door that said BREAK ROOM on it in large black letters.

He unlocked the door and let Sam in. He shut the door, blocking themselves from my view until I found a window that let me see them.

He was munching on pretzels as Collins spoke, occasionally nodding. Collins left the room for a moment, then reappeared with another officer. She wasn’t very tall, about an inch or so taller than Sam, and was carrying a clipboard with her.

She smiled at Sam, but most importantly, her smile reached her eyes.

Sam asked her a question, and she nodded in assent as he rose to walk over to the window. He opened it, and I caught the tail end his statement. “-raining, but I would like to breath fresh air.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Sam,” the woman said. “Now, you said you wanted to file a report of child abuse about your father. I’m just going to ask you a few questions about that, and I’ll take your statement. Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Go ahead, Officer Carting.”

“Okay,” Officer Carting said. She looked down at her clipboard for a second. “When did the abuse begin?” she asked. “It’s alright if you have to stop for a second.”

“Uh, about eighteen months ago,” Sam said. “About a month after my mother died.”

“I’m sorry,” Officer Carting said. “What was the nature of the abuse?”

“Mostly physical,” Sam said quietly. “Sometimes he’d say horrible things about me, like that I was a mistake, or that I should just… off myself and be done with it.”

Collins swore under his breath and Sam looked up at him. “It’s not like I ever took any of his advice,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upward in a smirk. “On the contrary, actually. First time I fought back. He seemed pretty surprised that I wasn’t just taking it like I usually did.”

“How many times did you resist?” asked Carting. “And when you did, how many times did you avoid injuries?”

“A lot, now that I think about it,” said Sam, a strange light coming into his eyes. “As for how often I avoided injuries? Maybe less than half of the time. Most of the time he was drunk, but I wasn’t that good at fighting at first.”

“At first?” Collins raised an eyebrow.

“I, uh, may have binged-watched a few Netflix shows and analyzed fight scenes,” Sam said. “But wonder of wonders, I got hit less. And I didn’t land more punches, but the ones that I did, they counted more.”

“You’re a resourceful boy, Sam,” said Carting. “Now, you said that you had evidence? Do you mind if you and I look at that?”

“Uh…” Sam said, hesitantly.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to review it now,” she said quickly. “I’ll just need to ask you any questions I have after I watch everything.”

“It’s not that,” Sam muttered quietly. “Will it just be you and me?”

“I can go if you want, Sam,” Officer Collins hastily said.

“On the contrary,” Sam said. “Could you stay?”

Collins seemed surprised for a moment. “Sure,” he said. “I can.”

Sam went to his gym bag, which was on a bench, and dug through it, pulling out his laptop. He set it on the table and opened it. His face was bathed in blue light, and he typed in a long password.

The laptop was facing away from the window, so I couldn’t see what was on the screen. I could, however, see the faces of the three people in the room. Sam clicked a few times, and the color of the light on his face changed from blue to green.

“Is there audio?” asked Carting.

“Yeah, but it might not be that good at times,” Sam said. “I had to hide the camera under my bed at some points to prevent him from seeing it.”

“That’s fine,” said Carting. “Let’s see it.”

Sam clicked one more time and the videos started to play.


	5. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The videos play, and thoughts are seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm really bad that summaries.

“This is Entry 1 of Abuse Logs,” said Sam’s voice from the computer. “Well, not really, but I only just started filming. It’s been… going on for a while now. I don’t even know why I’m filming this now. Something to do, I guess. 

“So, uh… I guess I need context for this? I was downstairs having breakfast, like, cereal and stuff, and my dad comes down, already drunk. I stay quiet, hoping that he just ignores me. It works, until I’m taking my bowl over to the sink to wash it, and I drop my spoon. 

“No big deal, right? Hah, well, my dad comes over and starts to scream at me how I’m a slob and I’m an idiot and all those other insults. But then, then he picks up my bowl and throws it onto the floor and then shoves me down onto the broken glass.”

Then there was a sound of the camera being moved, and Carting gasped while Collins cursed louder than before. I presumed that the camera showed Sam’s face then. 

“Yep,” said the real Sam. “That was fun.”

“Uh, I think that’s it,” computer Sam said. “End Entry 1 of Abuse Logs.”

“And that’s only the first?” Carting asked softly.

“There’s only twenty-eight of them. Some are worse than others,” Sam said. “There are worse ones than these, as well as better ones.”

“Let’s continue, then,” said Collins. “Any that you particularly want to go over?”

“A few,” said Sam. “I’ll skip to it.” He clicked again and another video started. 

“This is… ugh, what is it?… Entry 11 of Abuse Logs. This one’s a little different. Context. So, today, my dear father told me to kill myself! What a supportive parent, I know. I didn’t agree with that, so I decided to take a swing at him. Maybe it’s my fault that I got beat up then, but… This time it’s not the injuries. It’s the words. 

“And all I could think as I tried to hit him was,  _ sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  _ Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… but words?

“Fists and kicks will bruise my skin, but words will bruise my heart. And I don’t believe it now, but if he keeps saying it, will I? How long will it take? A week? A month? A year? 

“I think I’d rather the sticks and stones. End of Entry 11 of Abuse Logs. See you never, I hope.”

“Can we arrest him yet?” asked Collins. “I really want to arrest him.” 

“But wait, there’s more!” said Sam with all of the flair of an infomercial announcer. He clicked again and a third video started. 

“Entry 12 of Abuse Logs,” said computer Sam. “This one’s not really about an instance of abuse, but I think that it’s important. So, call me insane, but why haven’t I been protecting myself? I kinda feel like a dumbass for not thinking about it before. But I’ve been working.  

“I’ve been watching some Netflix shows and looking at the fight scenes. Okay, so I won’t have ICERs or heightened senses or a Batarang or whatever, but I can at least learn how to punch, right? It can’t hurt to try. 

“On the other hand, however, I don’t know if the things that happen are ‘abuse’ anymore. But whatever is happening, it shouldn’t be. End of Entry 12 of Abuse Logs. Goodbye, or at least for now with my luck.”

“Is this when you started to fight back?” asked Carting. 

“Yeah,” said Sam. 

“Are there any videos with your father in them?” asked Collins. 

“No,” Sam said. “Usually it’s only after it happens. But the last one I did has his voice recorded on it.”

“When was that?” asked Carting. 

“Only a few hours ago,” said Sam. “Officer Collins picked me up around two hours later.” He clicked one last time, and the events of the afternoon started playing on the computer. 

When the video was over, Carting turned to look at Sam. “Do you have a backup of the videos?” she asked. “We only looked over a few of them, but it was enough to ensure a warrant. If this goes to court, we’ll need to look at every piece of evidence.”

Sam dug around in his pocket for the flash drive and handed it to her. “Everything’s on there,” he said. “Including a few pictures of the various bumps I got from him.”

“This should be enough to put him away,” Collins said. “If he’s convicted, he’ll face a minimum of twenty years in prison, and when he gets out, you’ll have a nice little restraining order against him.”

"So this will never happen again?" asked Sam. For the first time, he sounded hopeful. Young. 

"Positive," said Officer Collins, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder.


	6. My Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was summoned back. No... Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO IT'S A SERIES

Their voices started to fade in and out of focus, the sound of the wind blurring over their voices.

I knew what that meant. I was losing my grip in this world. I was the rain, but the rain stops. I was being summoned back home.

No. Nononono. Not yet. Sam's voice faded as the world around me dimmed to a deep gray.

I needed to tell my kin about Sam. There was something about him that bespoke about the olden kings, of times of greatness. Of a time when dragons flew the skies and brave knights fought for their honor. Of a time of when beauty and monsters might be one and the same, and guardians walked the earth and dealt justice to those who needed it.

Of a time of villains and heroes and many, many, shades of gray.

He was a link.

I was one of the oldest forces on this Earth, but now it dawned on me that maybe something even bigger was at work here.

Maybe it was the one responsible for creating the world.

Maybe it was God.

Or maybe it was something eternal, infinite, and something as unfathomable as the darkest depths of this reality.

The scene before me started to flicker, and the last thing I saw before I fizzled out was a woman opening the door and saying “A man’s here. For him.” She nodded to Sam.

Sam went pale, and my world went black.

* * *

 

Black.

My world was black.

You’d think I would panic, except that this had happened before so many times, I’d lost track.

My world didn’t become white, or lighten to gray, It just became solid shapes, and with that, I too became solid. I had a body, and appearance, a _voice._

My sight fell upon a group of people.

Five very familiar, and yet, very  _unwelcome_ people.

There was Wind, blustery and chaotic, standing still yet whirling around, filling every corner with her presence. She was a raven-haired young woman, lightning crackling in her eyes and wind weaving through her hair, lifting it up and making it flow through the air. She was wearing form-fitting jeans, tightly laced boots, and a navy blue jacket over a white shirt that flowed about her like her hair.

There was Glint, with crystalline blue eyes and wavy ice-blonde hair. She herself wore a knee-length tunic with a belt around her waist and strappy sandals that wound up to mid-calf. She shone with a light, and I was unable to distinguish what color it exactly it was. Despite looking as unapproachable as an arctic night, she smiled warmly at me.

There was Sun, long and straight red-haired and with a temper that could flare as quickly as a match dropped in gasoline. She was wearing black leggings and a sleeveless shirt with the colors of every sunset on it. The strange thing about it was that it seemed to shimmer, changing color over and over again. Her brown eyes were sparkling with mirth, and she seemed to shine just as brightly as Glint, but her light was warmer, less ethereal.

There was Flight, the tallest and most solemn of us. She was never without a bird, and feathers decorated her hair, braided into the curly locks of smooth blonde-brown. She wore laced up boots like Wind, but her boots were more fashionable, less practical. Her shirt featured a feather pattern and was with one sleeve off the shoulder. As I would take form through drops of rain, she would take form through the flight of birds.

Finally, there was Star. Her hair seemed to be the night sky, so dark that it looked purple. Her eyes held all the secrets of the night, and her features were kind. She wore a brown jacket and blue knee length skirt, with a simple white shirt. Her hair was braided loosely, and when she pulled her hair out of it, it would bounce out into perfectly formed waves.

“Why am I here?” I asked. “I wasn’t done on Earth.”

“We called a meeting,” said Sun. “There has been a prophecy.”

“So?” I asked, shrugging. “There’s one almost every other day. What’s different about this one?”

“There are  _fragments_ almost every other day,” said Flight softly. “Not whole prophecies.”

“Rain should see it for herself,” said Glint.

Wind walked over to me and lead me over to the Wall of Wisdom and Writing. The Wall was a twenty foot high and forty-foot long surface covered in silver, bronze, and gold writing. Gold writing were prophecies that had come to pass, silver writing were fragments of prophecies, and bronze writing were whole prophecies that would soon come to pass.  

Sure enough, bronze writing was glowing on the Wall, freshly written.

It read:

_There is one who shall fight for his life,_

_He shall fight for his freedom too._

_He shall endure both fist and knife,_

_He shall befriend the ancients too._

_But there’s more to his story, so listen well,_

_One of your number has met him._

_He has a silent story to tell,_

_Find him, before his life goes dim._

_He is the link, the missing piece._

_The Rain has seen his battle scars,_

_The piece of prey for the beast._

_But there’s more to him than just his scars._

_He will learn the sword and shield,_

_To not attack, but to defend._

_Light and darkness he will wield_

_Until his pain is at an end._

The rest of my sisters looked at me.

“Have you met anyone like that, Rain?” asked Glint.

I swallowed. “I have,” I said. “His name is Sam Lancost. He is a victim of bullying from three other boys, and his father I have good reason to believe beyond a reasonable doubt is an abusive….” I snapped my fingers. “What’s the term?”

“Asswipe?” asked Sun cheerfully.

“Yes, that’s the one,” I said.

“Is he still with him?” asked Flight, looking concerned.

“No,” I said. “He was at the police station. With a man called Officer Ted Collins, and a woman named Officer Carting. However, just before you summoned me back, another woman came in and said that there was a man looking for Sam. I can only assume that she meant his father.”

“One of us should go back,” said Flight. “It can’t be me, Rain, Sun, or Glint though. It would be a bit odd if the rain started back up again, or the night was cut off, or if it started to snow. And as for me, I am limited to whatever my birds can see.”

Wind stepped forward.

“I’ll go,” she said. “I’ll observe Sam and intervene if he gets in any trouble.”

I nodded. “A word of advice,” I said. “He seems to be vaguely aware of us. He talked out loud when he was alone, and then made fun of himself for talking to the rain.”

Wind nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With that, the ever-present wind around her suddenly roared, and she was gone.


End file.
